


Eventually, your noble gaze will burn out your eyes

by zedtheunicorn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Angry Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Hunt, Hunt Gone Wrong, Ignored Dean, Isolation, M/M, Motel Fic, POV Dean Winchester, Poison, Profound Bond, Sick Dean Winchester, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1261309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zedtheunicorn/pseuds/zedtheunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A numb idea begins to form in Dean's mind, after three weeks of silence. What if Cas was dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leave me with nothing because you're everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DestielAlways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielAlways/gifts).



In the clearing, birdsong drifts softly through the trees, telling Dean the sun will be up soon. It is light enough that his mind imagines every tree is a potential beast, waiting to avenge, to tear into his breaking body and rip him outside-in where he stands.

He tries to focus on the way he’s shivering, as each uneven trudge takes him further away from the bowels of the earth and its warmth, leaving the dying screams of a monster behind, its feral howling transforming into a human wail in its last moments.

_At some point, you’re going to have to stop treating me like I don’t understand, Cas. You’re not a mon-_

_We’re all monsters, Dean._ Cas’s voice echoes in his head, the last thing he’d said before leaving. _Especially you._

Dean tries to imagine the burning through the arm cradled to his chest, the broken bone screaming _it’s not natural to feel this pain._ He tries to think about the way the claw marks should sting, raked deep into the left side of his head, the shoulder of his unbroken arm, his ribs, his wrists. Surely, with every clumsy step, every stagger and heave of his chest, they are widening. He pretends he can feel the agony shooting up his spine, his legs only just managing to work. The rush of blood to them should be uncomfortable, after they’d been pinned beneath the nearly-dead weight of fur and teeth.

He fails.

Sighing with relief, he stops when he sees his baby, the paint reflecting what little light there is. Bloody fingers come to rest on the roof of the impala, and he becomes dimly aware of how slow his heart is beating, as if he hadn’t just put an end to a three week hunt. As if he hadn’t watched the light dim in large slit red eyes, or dug the buried teeth out of his collarbone with his broken arm, fingers digging into its gums to try and make it relent but it had no energy in its failing body. It took Dean an hour to shift its dying weight off him.

Deliberating, he looks at the shotgun in his hand. If he wasn’t shaking so badly, he’d probably keep it in the front with him to be safe. Instead, he puts it back in the trunk and his hand closes around a folded bundle. He throws a blanket over the bench seat and another around him. He swears as he eases himself into the car, knowing by the time he gets back to the motel, he’ll have bled through the blanket onto the leather.

If he makes it back before he passes out.

The shock is making the wheel tremble under his fingers, and he knows the cold setting into his bones is too much blood leaking out of his body. On the turn into the motel, he’s shaking so violently the impala nearly careens into its sign instead of the parking lot.

Eventually, he parks the impala outside the room, careful to make sure the blanket is covering the leather fully. It takes time he doesn’t have to grab the med-kit from under the seat, and sluggishly get out. The world reels, and he staggers, somehow managing to keep the blanket around him as he gets to the door, nearly dropping the keys in his fumbling fingers.

\---

Dean stares at the bottle in front of him, toying with the glass in his bandaged hand before draining the contents. The burn doesn’t quieten the hollow feeling inside, or the disquiet surrounding it. It just makes the sour, coppery taste in his mouth have a worse edge. The walls are thin enough he can hear slurred bellowing in the room next to his, and the wall shudders as something is thrown against it.

The pain hasn’t made itself known, yet. Just like the guilt of not being quick enough, not smart enough to help Cas, to know what to say when the angel reached out to him, needed him, as always. When Cas had finally seen how useless Dean was to him, he’d left without another word.

That had been three weeks ago.

The loneliness hadn’t launched its attack, Dean’s life had hit pause and there wasn’t a way to feel anything without the angel’s belief in him.

He’d thrown himself into hunting. Into the simple, sad life that was the thing he knew. For everything he didn’t, he didn’t give a damn.

He poured another glassful and swirled it, as if he wasn’t sure what its purpose was anymore.

Not every day, but periodically he wondered if Cas would ever come back. The new regime in heaven he’d pitted himself again was worse than Raphael, and when Dean couldn’t give any longer… It made him start to think, and the thought was always stoic, hollow, and that in itself was disconcerting.

What if Cas was dead?

Would there have been any angel that would think to tell him? Did Cas’s new garrison know of Dean’s existence? Probably not. He’d just be waiting for the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, so he could turn around and – something would unfreeze; he’d feel like himself again.

At first, he’d tried to stop the scenarios from forming, like they always did. An angel appearing with a confused but mournful expression, but there wasn’t energy enough now. Dean imagined sitting there, feeling his face fall, his world crumbling to dust, absurdly attending a funeral with a casket with rain pounding him into a grave next to his friend, sinking a blade into the messenger angel – _something._

It’s the only thing he can do. Wait to feel what he’s expecting to.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he hurls the glass at the wall where it shatters, watching the whiskey splay out on the grimy paint. His heart-beat does not stir. He doesn’t have the will to mutter a curse.

There is no feeling left in him. His face is in his hands, and he breathes out evenly.

The air in the room is disturbed by the soft down swing of wings.

For a second he doesn’t dare move, just in case he’s imagined the sound.

_I thought you were dead, you dick. You stupid son of a bitch. You wouldn’t think about how anything affected me, just taking that broken act of being strong for truth. You were too busy upstairs playing Risk and warring it out. I started thinking, what if you’d lost? Would I even fucking know for sure? Would I find out when a demon leans over me, twisting a knife into my face? No. I’d never fucking know, would I? I’d be sitting there waiting for you to come back, praying for it._

He wants to shout at him, scream, tackle the bastard and tell him he has no right to make him feel so vulnerable.

Instead, he feels a sort of numb relief, welcoming the angel with open arms. His heart slows down further, and it’s all he can do to hear the gruff voice as he feels that muscle in his ribcage pumping poison through his veins.

He thinks it ironic, as his grip on the angel slips and his body bows downward and slowly starting to curl in on itself, something presses play again.

The broken bone in his arm wobbles with the jarring impact of Cas’s fingers, desperate. The claw marks sting and stretch, covering his skin in fresh blood. Behind his folded knees the abused tissue starts to throb. His body starts to heat with the agony, and not for a minute did he forget about those fangs buried in his collarbone, the hour-long struggle, and the eventually human screams. As the muscle in his chest stutters to a halt, he knows none of it matters:

Cas is calling him.


	2. If I'm going to go, don't make me stay

His whole ribcage feels hollow without the hammering. Black spots appear in his vision, bleeding out Cas. He can’t breathe. Green eyes wheel around, searching for the angel. Veins seem to bulge and writhe without their usual pressure, trying to contort their way through his skin. He’s aware of his body lashing out, thrashing in a last ditch attempt to survive, tearing away from the angel’s grip as if he can survive without it. He feels an arm wrapping around his to catch him, but Dean’s body is slick with fresh blood, and Cas’s fingers falter around a gash on Dean’s wrist.

He crashes to the floor. The impact is slightly softened, slowed by Cas’s failed attempt to catch him, but it still feels like hell. His teeth seem to clack against the roof of his mouth, biting into the soft vein, or they sink into his tongue. He’s not sure what’s possible anymore.

The poison in him keeps getting hotter, rising through every layer of his skin, every organ, and every bone. Unmistakable like the bitter self-loathing he’s carried with him for most of his life, he’s being burned alive in his own skin. He has enough clarity in him for one thought - just enough to wonder if this is similar to his mother’s death - he sees himself ripping out Yellow-eyes’ throat a thousand times more than he’d ever dreamed.

The rage suffocates with the rest of him.

His heart shudders. It relieves the pressure for an instant, and he sucks in a lungful of air, icy against the inflamed, infected tissue. The black pooling in his vision relents, and resumes its assault as his heart fails to move. His mouth is bloody, but he can’t remember his body moving enough for it to travel up his throat. With it coating his skin, filling his mouth, and probably oozing from even his eyes at this point, it feels as if he’s only made of the slick, burning red.

The air in his lungs escapes and they start to scream again.

His insides twist and he knows he’s going to throw up. Something feels disconnected and he can’t, finally burnt out by the poison. Whatever it is, it’s the first thing to go.

His heart contracts again, less forcefully, and he’s gasping another breath. Something presses into his forehead, and his body slows, his muscles relaxing.

Sound. He can hear coughing, something like claws scrabbling on wood -

“Dean-!”

 _No_ , he thinks. _If I’m going to go – don’t make me stay._

Cas is hovering over him, and he can’t think why his eyes have suddenly decided to work again. His heart is losing to the agony, each second is a second it is silent. He knows it won’t be long until the brain damage starts. In the middle of choking, he realises he can’t feel his skin tearing as his body lurches. The broken bone in his arm no longer jars. The gashes on his skin are no longer. His arm is whole.

His skin feels dry, but -

“Dean – I -”

Dean breathes, but there’s no relief. His heart – his _heart –_

“I know, Dean – I’m-”

It squeezes again, allowing a few seconds of something more aware.

Cas is shaking, smeared with blood he knows belongs to him. He’s trying to support Dean with a hand around his neck, an arm around his back. From the angel’s expression, Dean thinks of how many souls must have died in Cas’s arms, begging him for something.

He can’t think of anything he’d want.

“Can’t heal your heart – it’s slowing the poison.”

Dean’s body lurches and he realises it’s a laugh escaping him. Cas is worried about _that_ when his whole body is drowning in the crap and his heart’s nearly dead, of course his priorities are fucked.

It’s so… _Cas._

The angel’s so close to him Dean can smell the salt of the tear tracks on his face, a welcome change from the heavy scent of blood. The organ in his chest squeezes pitifully.

“ _Let.”_

It’s all he can manage past the gargle of blood.

After years of running his hand across the barrel of his gun, the first knife Dad had given him, imagining how it would feel to put a bullet in his mouth, press the cold metal against his heart and feeling it thump against it weakly so he can finally resemble the emptiness inside, he’s sick of waiting.

He’d rather die quicker than this.

Dean fixes Cas with a glare as well as he can as his body jerks again, eyes smarting as he pins them in Cas’s direction, his head falling back. He hopes Cas’ll get it. He doesn’t have time for confusion.

Quivering nearly as violently as Dean, his eyes glow white as he concentrates.

Dean grits his teeth as Cas’s power mixes with the burning between his lungs, and his heart starts beating at a normal pace, healed. It won’t beat for much longer, but at least he’ll be able to breathe through the limited number and draw the painful air into words.   

He breathes in shakily, his limbs still trembling but no longer seizing. Nausea attacks him as the poison is pumped more efficiently through his body. He hurls, wrenching himself halfway out of Cas’s grip, his clammy face against the cold floor.

“Dean…you had to go out and hunt the one thing we can’t heal, didn’t you? Its poison is deadly to _us._ It smothers grace and taints it until it’s as poisoned and ruined as the vessel.I don’t know what this substance will do to you,” the angel’s voice trembles, his hands hovering as if he wants to support Dean but isn’t sure how anymore.

Dean is glad Cas didn’t say _a human._

Another croaking laugh escapes Dean, leaving him breathless.

Cas’s frown deepens.

“I’m done,” Dean says.

Everything’s slow, now. Each breath, although shuddering and uneven, is not accompanied by seizing muscles. It’s a relief to be still.

“What happened…to – to the angels that got - ?”

Cas’s hand comes to Dean’s cheek, and through the fever, Dean can almost feel the angel’s grace thrumming, encased behind his vessel, a thin veil to which Cas otherwise couldn’t exist. As Cas looks away, Dean knows the angel won’t insult him by trying to lie. He’s always been a terrible liar.

The burning is becoming comfortable warmth, still with an edge of pain, but bearable now. It must have finished deep-frying his nerves.

“You aren’t the first I’ve had to watch die at the teeth of those monsters, Dean Winchester,” the words are reminiscent of the first time Dean had met him, inexplicably detached, formal.

Dean knows better.

Just being here is killing Cas, shaking him up worse than the angel’s ever been when he’s seen the mutilation of his garrison in unmeasurable, torturous ways as he dragged Dean from hell, and just like that – Dean’s near lifelong urge to be done, to be dead, is gone.

With a sigh, Dean leans his face further into Cas’s hand, and resigns himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a while to write, to get the feeling of it being right.  
> The fic's not over yet (:


	3. Monsters wear the skins of those you love

Cas breaks the silence and Dean cracks open exhausted eyes. He doesn’t have the strength to ask what Cas said. The heat thrums along his spine, and he wonders how long he has left.

Sunlight breaking through grubby curtains warps the air; every dust mote drifts between them. It’s early, from the angle it’s shining.

Dean doesn’t know how long Cas has been kneeling. Supporting Dean’s head with his ribcage, the hunter’s body curved against the angel. Cas’s hand hovers over Dean’s neck, but something halts his fingers and they remain in the air. As his hand closes and falls out of Dean’s line of sight, Dean realises the angel is afraid of injuring him further.

As if he could feel it, now.

He doesn’t remember being moved, or Cas’s hand leaving his face in the first place. With the angel so close, it’s easy to see Cas’s eyes are dull, rimmed with red and shadowed beneath his damp eyelashes. His face is otherwise calm.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” the words are steady.

Somewhere, a tap is dripping. The floor vibrates as someone walks past outside. Dean realises they’re lying near the window, facing the parking lot.

Had they always been so close to that wall?

His mouth is so dry it takes him a few tries to convince his throat to work. The words that come out aren’t the words he intended, but he finds himself incapable of remembering what they would have been.

“Saying it enough might make you believe it.”

Cas’s decided calm fades.

“You don’t believe me?”

Not having an answer, Dean huffs. “Why are you even here, man? You showing up the exact time that crap started killing me was not crappy timing. Why’d you come?”

Cas shakes his head, squinting at Dean. His head tilts to the side. “You think I’d let you spend your last in a – rotting motel? Alone, trying to hold in your screams with oblivious strangers a breadth away?”

“I don’t need your pity. I’m not screaming, Cas.”

Dean suspects if he’d snapped at him any other time Cas would have punched him. The angel would have slammed him against something because it all had to be _so clear to an angel of the lord._ He knows the angel’s treating him too much like broken glass to dare.

Cas’s mouth twists.“It’s a gift you can’t feel the agony your body is radiating right now. You know I can’t heal you, and to take you to a hospital – the flight alone would kill you faster. So perhaps a fraction of it is _pity_.”

“Couldn’t turn up before that thing decided to make me its new toothbrush?”

“ _Dean-”_

The room shudders, and it’s not until Cas’s hands encircle him he realises he’s coughing up blood.

“It’s okay.”

Dean leans against Cas’s arms as the angel straightens, unable to do anything else until the fit passes. His head thuds back against the angel’s sternum, exhausted, and Cas remains unmoved.

“I need to know why you would go after those creatures.”

“Hunter.”

“Angels can’t get close enough to kill them! What were you thinking?”

“No angel radio,” he snaps, chest heaving with the effort. He wants to sit up and put some distance between him and the constant questions. Cas’s hand comes under Dean’s face. His touch is gentle, as always, and it makes Dean want to hit him.

“Had to gank ‘em. Before they got to anyone,” Dean says, and Cas frowns.

After a pause, Dean thinks Cas should have the whole truth, even if he doesn’t deserve it now.

“I needed not to think. About – about –“

“Dean, I don’t understand.”

“You were dead.” Cas’s chest shudders and Dean half lifts his hand and lets it drop again. “Dead enough. Hitting the bottle wouldn’t burn out your corpse from the insides of my eyelids.”

Cas stills underneath him.

 _You can’t even protect the ones you love_ , Dean quashes the thought.

His heart is pounding faster, and the hunter instinct – always his Dad screaming to get up, showing him where he’s hurt kicks in.

_That poison’s just about done with you._

He’s somewhat grateful it had burnt away his pain receptors, and despises himself at the thought.

 _Coward,_ his Dad's voice whispers.

“Shocker.” He wheezes a laugh which lasts about two breaths, unsure whether he’s talking to Cas or his Dad. “Always me, ain’t it? Going to pieces. Fucking worried about _you,_ the damn world ending _again_ or some other _crap -”_

_You’re weak, Dean. What’s the point of a man who can’t protect the ones he loves?_

His body lurches as another fit attacks him. Dean sags back against Cas. The anger’s disappeared, taking Dean’s strength with it.

_Every time you open your mouth you hurt someone, boy. Stop using your voice, you don’t need one to hunt. You don’t deserve -_

The edges of the room are warping, bleeding into black.

“I always come when you call.”

“I didn’t call,” Dean murmurs, and Cas’s face fades from him.

_I always knew you were pathetic, Dean, never thought you were a monster. Every soul you ever laid eyes on got hurt because of you._


End file.
